Sentence Strokes

About running small. Over a surface made of paint. Exhilerating lostness. It is then I know texture. Arms draped over a streaking swell. Scritches and scumbles underfoot. Are there this many colors in the sea? Splattering like sparrows. Am I getting the picture? I lie down. Cairns and edgings against my back. What seemed soft – crisp and poky as briars. What looked hard and smooth gives like dried glue. I scurry in the trenches left by brush. Spin through dips and curls. A painting is a planet I inhabit. Directed through the paths of subtlest vein. To explore I engage. Guard asks that I step away.